


Paradigm Shift (Or, How to Heal a Demon)

by rattatatosk



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Ancient History, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Asexual Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale to the Rescue (Good Omens), Crowley's Name is Crawly | Crawley (Good Omens), Drugging, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Blood/Injury, Neo-Babylonian Empire, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Poisoning, Pre-Arrangement (Good Omens), Rescue, brief mention of vomiting, magical healing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-17 16:42:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29595735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rattatatosk/pseuds/rattatatosk
Summary: Aziraphale stared down at the demon's limp body, wringing his hands as he desperately tried to figure out what to do.No, that wasn't quite right. He knew what to do:  he needed to heal Crawly. The question was,how?Everyone knew you couldn't heal demons with divine light. Or-- well. He supposed that wasn't quite right, either. No one knew it, because no one would have ever bothered to try it. He was an angel; they didn't heal demons, they smited them.But he couldn't-- he couldn't just leave Crawly like this, helpless and alone. He had to do something. If he didn't, no one else would.And yet the question remained-- how?
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 22
Kudos: 77





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Bookwormgal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bookwormgal/gifts).



**Neo-Babylonian Empire**

**~600 BCE**

Honestly, Crawly just wanted a drink.

It had been a long, hot day of walking on dusty human roads, and he had several more days of the same to look forward to before he got to Babylon. This town didn't have a lot to offer, as far as he could see-- it was barely more than a stopping post-- but at least they should have something to wash the dust from his throat.

The innkeeper glared at him as he sat down, her gaze lingering on his face, and he grimaced. Out on the road all day, he'd forgotten to set a glamour over his eyes.

Well, there was nothing for it, now. He was too tired to bother erasing her memories. He'd just have to muddle through and hope that his money was enough to make her overlook his oddities.

“Give me a jug of your best,” he told her, sliding a coin onto the counter, “and keep it coming.”

She gave him a stiff nod, and retreated into the kitchen. A moment later, she returned, setting a clay cup and a large jug down next to him. It was cool and damp from the cellar, and the liquor smelled pleasantly strong; pungent and herbal. He topped off the cup and then tossed it back in one go, sighing in relief as the cool liquid rinsed the dust from his mouth. He didn't need water the way a human did, but a refreshing drink was still a relief after the heat of the day.

He gave a deep, satisfied sigh, reached for the jug to pour himself another cup, and then froze as something in his stomach _lurched_.

“What-” he gasped, and coughed. There was a bitter taste lingering on his tongue, and a sliver of dread creeping up his spine. His gaze flicked to the innkeeper, who was leaning against the bar, watching him with small, satisfied smile.

 _Shit_ , Crawly thought. _Poison_ ? He wasn't sure just what she'd slipped into his drink, but humans had any number of concoctions to ward off evil spirits. Whatever it had been, it was playing merry Heaven with his insides, and it was moving _fast_.

He closed his eyes, trying to remember to breathe. _Don't panic_ , he thought. _I can handle this_. He flicked his fingers, reaching for his magic to miracle the drink out of his system.

Except.

His magic wasn't there.

 _Don't panic_ , he thought again, definitely panicking. His magic couldn't be _gone_ , humans weren't _that_ powerful. Whatever it was, it had only been one drink. He could do this. He'd done this a million times before. There was nothing to it. He just needed to _focus_.

He reached again for his power, brimming hot and acrid at the core of him, drawing out a single thread and holding it. Right. Now he just needed to... to...  
  
Nausea rolled through him, and he shuddered, sweat beading on his forehead. The world blurred around him as he swayed, suddenly dizzy.

No. No. He could _do_ this. _Focus_.

He flicked his finger again, imagining the miracle, picturing it in his mind. Just-- just move the alcohol out of his corporation and put it back in the mug. No sweat.

But as soon as he released it, the magic twisted out of his control, veering wildly off-course and landing somewhere behind him. There was an angry shout, and he winced. He wasn't sure what he'd done, only that it wasn't what he wanted.

He coughed again, reaching for the edge of the counter to steady himself enough to try again. His guts were churning. _Shit_. What had that human _done_ to him?

He was sweating now, and the chill that had started in his stomach was creeping up his spine, leaving him shivering. Spots danced in front of his eyes. He reached out for the edge of the bar-- hadn't he already been holding it?-- trying to stay upright. His fingers were nerveless and clumsy, fumbling at nothing.

There was a rush of air, and then he was on the floor, his cheek pressed against the hard clay. _Shit_ , he thought again, real fear rising in his throat now. He needed to get out of here. Just-- just get _away_ , just curl up and _hide_ somewhere until whatever this was wore off.

He fumbled at the ground, trying to push himself up, but his corporation didn't seem to want to obey him. His arms trembled beneath him, and before he knew it, he was back in the dirt. His whole body was shaking, teeth chattering as chills wracked him.

There were shadows gathering around him now, the low murmur of angry voices hemming him in. Humans. He could feel their anger, the malice of the crowd filling the air like smoke, and he knew it was aimed at him. _Demon_ , they hissed at him, _monster_.

He didn't know what they had planned for him, only that it was sure to hurt. He was already so weak, there would be no fighting back.

Which, he supposed, had been the whole point.

Desperate, he reached out again for his power, grabbing huge fistfuls of it and pulling it towards him. There was no time left for subtlety; he just needed _out._

Panting hard, he squeezed his eyes shut, trying to picture someplace he could go. Safe, safe, he needed somewhere _safe_. But his corporation was shaking with panic now, body flooded with chemical inputs, and he couldn't hold the images in his mind. They wavered like reflections in water, fractured and unclear. He reached again, and then again, but each time the magic was a little bit smaller, a little bit less.

Frantic now, he scraped into the dregs of his magic, gathering the scraps together, and, as a last resort, he willed himself to disappear.

 _Don't see me_ , he thought, desperately, curling himself into a ball on the floor. _I'm not here, there's nothing here, go back to your drinks_. He prayed—no. He hoped, he begged their attention to slide off him, for their eyes to look away, for them to forget.

It wasn't enough. His magic flickered and died, his focus too scattered to hold it. He was already the center of their attention, and he was too weak to deflect it. Their anger was hot and sharp and aimed entirely at him, as inescapable as a knife to the throat.

Rough hands grabbed his arms and dragged him to his knees, twisting his arms behind him. Something wrapped around his wrists-- rope or fabric, he didn't know, but they pulled it tight and it _burned_ , the undeniable sting of holiness biting into him. He hissed in pain, trying to pull away, but they held him fast.

His stomach roiled, and he retched, helplessly. What had they done to him? He shook his head. If he could-- could just get rid of it, just get it out, _please_ , he-- he could--

Cruel hands dug into his hair, yanking his head back. His vision was blurry, fractured, but it was impossible to miss the the bright, angry eyes of the innkeeper as she bent down to snarl at him.

“You've got real nerve, demon, coming back here after you cursed us,” she hissed, and he felt the wet splatter of saliva trickle down his cheek as she spat in his face.  
  
“D- didn't,” he slurred, swaying. He hadn't. Had he? His head hurt. It was so hard to think...

“None of your lies,” she snarled, and he felt more cloth being shoved into his mouth, silencing him. It burned, too, searing his tongue, and he screamed; the sound dampened into a pitiful, keening whine by the gag. He tried to fight, to thrash, but his limbs were heavy and limp, useless. He was shaking now, the whole of his corporation trembling, and he couldn't seem to get enough air, gasping for breath around the gag. His head swam, his vision blurring.

They tied the gag in place, too-tight, and then hauled him to his feet, angry fingers digging into his shoulders. His feet dragged in the dirt as they pulled him out into the street, too weak now to even make an attempt at holding himself up.

There were more humans gathered outside, blurry faces poking out of every window and doorway. The whispers built around him as they traveled, gossip fueling the rise of that same hate-filled miasma that had choked him in the tavern. Whatever had happened to these people, they were _furious_ , and all too eager to turn that fury on him, if it meant an end to their problems.

The narrow city streets twisted and turned, and he soon lost track of any sense of direction. He only knew that they passed from the dark city streets into someplace brighter. The thick cloud of malice hanging over him dissipated, and he dared to breath a sigh of relief-- until the aura of this place hit him.

It wasn't consecrated ground, but it was a holy place, and the sharp, scouring light of it would have brought him to his knees if he hadn't already been held in place. He could feel the heavy weight of Her gaze on him. She was always watching, of course, but here, in this space, he suddenly knew that he was Seen. That She was judging him, and as always, She had found him wanting.

They tossed him to the floor with a heavy thud, and he felt the salt circle close around him like a trap. The last connection to his magic vanished, cut off, and he keened at the loss. He was alone, pinned down, helpless and exposed.

Then they lit the incense.

The earthy, musty scent of frankincense hit him first, and the myrrh after. It burned on the way in, searing his sinuses, and he choked. The resin sought to purify, to consecrate, to exorcise-- to cleanse the space of everything he was. It bored through him like acid, a thousand stinging cuts, and he screamed again, thrashing weakly.

The very air around him was squeezing him, pushing him, telling him in no uncertain terms _you are not welcome here-- leave!_ But there was nowhere to go. He was trapped here. All he could do was twist and writhe against his bonds, which only pulled tighter the more he struggled.

He wanted to cry, to plead for mercy, to beg someone, _anyone_ , for help, but it wouldn't matter. No one would come for him. No one would save him. That was what it meant, to be a demon. That was his punishment. To be cast out, forever alone, lonely, lost, and _forsaken_. There was no mercy for him, no kindness. He was made to suffer.

His senses were muddled and confused by the incense, his awareness blunted by the barrier of the circle, but he could still feel the humans' satisfaction at his pain, their joy at seeing him suffer. To them, this was justice. He had hurt them, and they would have recompense, and if that price was to be paid in his blood-- well, he was a demon. It was no less than he deserved.

The humans' magic rolled over him like a wave, and the agony of it bore him under.

Eventually, mercifully, he blacked out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this fic is the first one in a long time where I didn't have a clear outline planned going in. I started out thinking it was going to be just a quick, simple bit of hurt/comfort, and then it got... considerably longer and more complicated. But I do like what it's turned into, even if it wasn't what I expected.
> 
> Thanks to Bookwormgal who suggested frankincense/myrrh as a potential anti-demon substance that poor Crawly might run into. It certainly added a little bit of extra spice (ha) to the situation I had planned. 
> 
> I tried to tag appropriately, but if you think I missed something that needs one, please let me know so I can add it. 
> 
> Next time: the comfort half of the h/c!


	2. Chapter 2

Aziraphale was met at the city gates by a grey-haired main who introduced himself as the village's chieftain, along with a stern-faced woman who served as the local shaman.

“Ah, Scholar Azirapil!” the chieftain cried, clapping him warmly on the back. Aziraphale did his best not to flinch. “I can't tell you how glad we are to see you. I wasn't sure you would be able to come so soon. I hope your journey was an easy one? No troubles on the road?”

“No, no,” Aziraphale said smoothly. “No trouble at all. Fortunately, I was nearby when I received your summons. Now, what is this all about? Your messenger said it was urgent.”

“Yes, yes, very urgent,” the man agreed. “You see, we've captured a demon.”

Aziraphale's heart froze in his chest.

 _It doesn't mean anything,_ he thought, trying to reassure himself. He was hardly the only angel in this part of the world, and Crawly certainly wasn't the only demon. These humans might have captured any one of them. Just because a demon was here didn't necessarily mean it was _his_ demon-- er, rather, that it was the demon he knew.

“Oh!” he said, doing his best to rein in his shock. “A-- a demon, you say? Yes, that sounds very urgent indeed.”

“Yes,” the man nodded, arrogant and eager. “It ended up being easier than we thought, actually. It might be an evil spirit, but it's not a clever one. It walked right into the bar and asked our shaman for a drink.”

Aziraphale fought not to show some relief at that. If that was the case, then surely, whatever demon they had couldn't be Crawly. Crawly was terribly clever. Aziraphale could acknowledge that, at least, even if he obviously didn't approve of the demon's methods.

“I see,” he said briskly. “Please, take me to see it.”

The man led him towards the back room of the building, chattering on about exactly how they'd snared such dangerous prey. Aziraphale was hardly listening. The feeling of unease wouldn't leave him. Crawly _was_ clever, that was true, but humans were _so_ very quick to judge sometimes, and they did get so very startled by anything they saw as strange or uncanny. Crawly's serpentine eyes certainly fit the bill, but it had even happened to him a few times, in the early days, before he'd gotten into the habit of breathing, or blinking, as much as humans seemed to think he should. Even sitting too still for too long was sometimes enough to spook them.

Crawly was clever, but anyone might be caught unawares. Humans did have so very many methods to drive off evil spirits, and if he'd encountered a witch, well... anything might have happened. And it shouldn't-- it shouldn't _matter._ Whether it was Crawly or not, Aziraphale still had his duty. But he found, as they drew closer and his dread grew, that it did matter. It mattered quite a lot, actually.

Crawly was a demon, but Aziraphale did not want to see him hurt.

The man pulled aside the rug covering the doorway, and Aziraphale stepped inside, his heart in his throat, hoping he was wrong.

 _Please_ , he prayed, _oh please, let it be someone else. Let it not be--_

But it was.

Laid out on the floor, trapped in the middle of a magic circle, was Crawly.

The demon looked _awful._ He was pale-- even paler than usual, his pallor stark against the dark cloth of his robes, and his skin was clammy with a thin sheen of sweat. His eyes were fully golden, edge to edge, but the pupils were strangely dilated, wider than he'd ever seen them. His breathing was shallow and labored, and he was trembling violently. Aziraphale crouched down outside the circle, trying to get a closer look, and the demon's eyes flicked towards him-- but there was no recognition there, only the dull, clouded glaze of someone in terrible pain.

The air was thick with incense-- frankincense and myrrh, and Aziraphale suppressed a shiver. The resins were burned to purify a space and drive out evil spirits-- no wonder Crawly looked so miserable, breathing them in as he was.

How long had he _been_ here, like this?

Two thoughts hit Aziraphale immediately, a fierce, visceral reaction. The first: _he doesn't deserve this_. And then, hard on its heels: _I have to get him out._

It shouldn't matter. It _shouldn't_. Crawly was a demon, and surely, this was no less than he deserved, tempting humanity to evil as he did. And yet-- Aziraphale couldn't make himself believe that. It did matter, very much. Whatever Crawly had done, whether he deserved it or not, Aziraphale couldn't let him suffer like this.

Which meant there was only one thing to do.

“I see,” Aziraphale said, grimly, standing up and turning back to the humans. “You were right to send for me. We must banish this fiend at once.”

Quickly, he called for supplies-- for pungent herbs and colorful powders, and braziers to burn them. The smoke rose up in great plumes as he tossed them in, filling the air until it was so thick he could barely see.

Then he began to pray.

Aziraphale had never actually performed a banishment ritual before. He preferred to leave that sort of thing to others, who were (rather unnervingly, to his mind) all too eager to pick up the slack. In any case, his most frequent encounters with a demon had been with Crawly, whose pointed, needling comments were often irritating, but hardly merited _banishment_.

So he wasn't sure, _exactly_ , how to go about this sort of thing, although he understood the theory well enough. The goal of a banishment was to draw power down from Heaven, channeling it into the circle until there was enough to smite the demon and discorporate it. Without a corporeal body to anchor it on the material plane, the demon would be transported back to Hell. Problem solved.

It was simple enough in concept, but of course, in this cae, Aziraphale had no intention of actually banishing Crawly. That meant he would have to improvise-- and that had never been his strong suit.

He closed his eyes, breathing in deep as he laid out the steps in his mind. He needed to create the appearance of a banishment, enough to fool the humans, as well as any Heavenly agents that might check up on this incident-- but without causing too much harm to Crawly, who was already worryingly weak. The demon hadn't moved at all throughout their preparations, except to twitch feebly against his bonds. Aziraphale wasn't sure he even knew they were there.

It seemed all too likely he would discorporate on his own soon. So. Aziraphale needed to make this as quick and painless as possible-- and avoid any real command or compulsion that might drive the demon to further injury.

Taking a deep breath, Aziraphale cleared his throat, and then intoned, in his most imposing ceremonial voice:

_Demon! Hear my words, and obey--_

_This house you will not enter; this roof you will not haunt!  
__You must not walk before these people, nor may you follow after them!  
__You will not put your foot in their footprints,  
__You must not stop where they stop, nor rest where they rest  
__Heed these words, and_ _come_ _before them no more!_

The words were dramatic-- but they were only words. He put no holy power behind them, no magic to bind Crawly to his will. Still, they sounded suitably impressive.

As he finished the prayer, he raised his arms high in a theatrical flourish, and then, with a snap of his fingers, Crawly disappeared.

* * *

The room around him erupted in a chorus of joyful cheers. Aziraphale blinked-- he hadn't realized so many people had gathered, but now, the room was full. People crowded in close to him, clasping his hands and reaching to touch his robes-- some even embraced him. A few were openly weeping.  
  
“Truly, scholar, we owe you a great debt,” the chieftain said, wrapping him in a fierce embrace. “Our village has suffered greatly from the demon's curse, but now, thanks to your efforts, it will surely be lifted.”

Aziraphale blinked. He'd been so distracted by whether it was Crawly that had been captured, he'd hardly heard their reasons _why_ they'd trapped the demon.

“Curse?” he asked.

“Yes-- surely you saw it on your travels here,” the shaman said. “The fields have all flooded, and there is a foulness in the water. It has poisoned our animals and sickened our people.”

Aziraphale's heart sank.

Oh. _That_ curse.

He did his best to keep his expression neutral, as the memory of Gabriel's instructions rang in his ear.

 _Remember, Aziraphale,_ Gabriel said, _you are only there to observe. You are not to interfere._

Aziraphale had nodded and turned to go, but Gabriel had stopped him with a clap on the shoulder-- a friendly gesture undercut by how firm his grip had been. He wondered faintly if he would bruise. _Look at me_ , _Aziraphale_ , Gabriel said. _I know how you get. I want to hear you say it. 'I. Will not. Interfere.'_

“ _I will not interfere,”_ Aziraphale had said, dully _. “I will only observe.”_

 _Good chap,_ Gabriel said then, beaming at him. _Run along now. We'll be waiting for your report.  
__  
_ “--but now that you have banished the demon,” the shaman was saying, “surely its curse will be lifted.” Her eyes were warm as she clasped his hand firmly in her own. “Thank you, scholar. We owe you a great debt.”

 _You don't owe me anything_ , Aziraphale thought bitterly, but aloud he only said, “You're quite welcome, of course. I am happy to help however I can.”

He thought again of Crawly, of the pity he'd felt at the demon's suffering, and his heart ached. _He didn't deserve that_ , he'd thought, and it was true. Crawly didn't deserve that. No one did.

And yet, these people were suffering, too. Did they not also deserve aid, if he was able to give it?

_You are not to interfere._

Aziraphale sighed. He couldn't help these people. He couldn't dry their fields or clean their water, or even ease their suffering. Heaven wouldn't allow it.

But he could help Crawly.

So. That's what he would do.

“I wish you all good fortune,” Aziraphale said to the chieftain. “No one can know the will of Heaven, but-- See that you all maintain your prayers, follow His law, and surely His fortune will smile upon you. Now, I am afraid I must go-- I have urgent business elsewhere.”

The demon was out of the circle now, away from the incense, but he was still bound, still wounded and alone. Aziraphale didn't think he'd be able to free himself without help. He needed to get to him.

He bestowed what small blessings he could spare without drawing attention, and hurried to make his escape.

* * *

He found Crawly at the farthest edge of the village, right at the edge between farmland and wilderness. The demon was slumped on the ground beneath a cluster of date trees, half hidden behind a small shepherd's hut. Fortunately, he was well out of sight of the road and any passers-by. Unfortunately, he had half fallen into a canal, his legs soaking in rotten, stagnant water.

Aziraphale hurried to his side, dragging him onto higher ground and looking him over. Aziraphale had hoped, removed from the shrine and it's haze of toxic incense, that Crawly might have revived a little. But while his color had improved a bit, he was no longer even semi-conscious, his limp body sprawled out on the sand, motionless.

Aziraphale knelt down next to him, trying to get a better look at his injuries. The skin around the gag was cracked and red; the cloth discolored from blood and bile seeping into the fabric. Quickly, he untied it, trying not to flinch at the blisters he could see covering Crawly's lips and tongue. Frowning, he stared down at the length of fabric in his hands. He hadn't sensed any blessing, to wound a demon so, but—oh.

Up close, he could see that what he'd taken for simple decoration or dye was in fact writing; long lines of prayers embroidered into the fabric.

 _Oh, Crawly,_ Aziraphale thought, his heart aching. It might not be blessed, but that much faith was sure to burn.

Carefully, Aziraphale turned Crawly over, pulling at the knots that bound his wrists behind his back. Here Crawly's demonic traits were on full display-- black scales covered his skin up to the elbows, and the nails had twisted into wicked claws. A defense mechanism, maybe. But it hadn't done any good. The wounds here were worse; deep burns and cuts that lay open and weeping wherever the cloth had touched.

Aziraphale pulled the cloth from his wrists, doing his best not to aggravate the injuries. He was only partly successful. The knots were tight, and the fabric had dug in deep.

The demon whimpered when the last of it was tugged loose, a high, pitiful whine, but he didn't wake.

Cautiously, Aziraphale shook his shoulder. “Crawly?” he called, softly. “Crawly? You're out of the temple. You're safe. You can wake up now.”

There was no response. Frowning, Aziraphale recalled the shaman explaining how they'd captured him-- something in his drink, she'd said. And yes-- now that he was looking for it, he could sense the poison within Crawly; like the cloth, it wasn't exactly _holy_ ,but it was certainly doing the demon no favors.

Well, he'd sobered his own self up many times before. This should be no different. Flicking his finger to conjure up a sliver of power, he nudged Crawly's corporation, trying to pull the poison out of it.

Perhaps he'd misjudged things, or Crawly's corporation objected to the heavenly miracle, because the effect was rather more dramatic than he'd hoped. Rather than the drink evaporating out of Crawly's bloodstream, his whole body convulsed and started vomiting.

“Oh! Oh dear,” Aziraphale fretted, rolling Crawly onto his side until he was finished. It seemed to have helped some; his color was better, and much of the trembling had subsided. But still Crawly did not wake, only lay on the ground, limp and lifeless.

“No,” Aziraphale whispered. Was he too late? He reached for one of Crawly's hands, seeking the pulse there. His skin was cold and chilled, despite the desert heat.

“Please,” Aziraphale pleaded. “Please, Crawly, wake up.” _Please, let me not be too late._

He leaned in closer, placing a hand over Crawly's lips, seeking the faint exhale of breath. But there was nothing. No flutter of air between his teeth, no rise and fall of his chest.

Crawly wasn't breathing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Crawly managed to get himself rescued, at least, but he's not out of the woods just yet. :/
> 
> Notes: Aziraphale's alias “Azirapil” is borrowed from [this lovely fic. ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19730593)
> 
> I could not get a lot of detail on what a small Mesopotamian village might be like, so... I tried to keep it vague and just improvised. If there's anything too out of place, just blame it on the GO verse being very weird and different from our own.


End file.
